


The Five Times Peter Denies an Illness or Injury + the One Time He Doesn't

by whumphoarder



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Broken Bones, Chicken Pox, Common Cold, Gen, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Peter Parker, Iron Dad, Irondad, Laryngitis, Minor Injuries, Sick Peter Parker, Stabbing, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Vomiting, gratuitous use of the word kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 20:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16070315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: In which Peter is a little shit who can't admit when he's hurt or sick.





	The Five Times Peter Denies an Illness or Injury + the One Time He Doesn't

**1.**

The first time that Tony encounters this tendency in Peter, it also happens to be one of the worst nights of Tony’s life. And given his history, that’s saying something. A German airport lies in ruins, his best friend will likely never walk again, half of his former teammates and colleagues have just been declared enemies of the state, and he’s about to have all of SHIELD up his ass about it. 

He’s just pouring himself a much-needed glass of scotch when there’s a knock on his hotel room door.

“God. What now?” Tony groans.

Happy lets himself in with the spare room key, which, bodyguard or not, Tony now regrets giving him. He stands in the doorway, looking haggard. “Something’s up with the kid,” he says gruffly.

“What do you mean ‘something’s up’?” Tony demands.

“He keeps insisting he’s fine but he won’t get up from the bed. Hasn’t once since we got back. Won’t eat either.”

Tony is unamused. “So you came to report that he’s being a moody teenager?”

Happy steps fully into the room now and lets the door shut behind him. “No,” he snaps back. “I came to report that I think he’s hiding something.”

Tony pauses at this. The last several hours have been such a whirlwind that he hasn’t given much thought to Peter since he had benched the kid mid-battle. He had made sure to send Happy in to whisk Peter off the tarmac and back to the hotel of course, but beyond that he’d just sort of assumed everything was fine with his new recruit.

Tony lets out a hard sigh. The kid has a metabolism to rival the Hulk—it’s all they can do to keep him fed on this trip. After all the exertion earlier, he ought to be ravenous _._ “He really hasn’t eaten anything in six hours?” he asks.

“Not one bite,” Happy confirms. “Won’t even sit up.”

Rolling his eyes, Tony heaves out another sigh. “Fine,” he relents. He sets down his untouched drink and pushes himself up from his seat. “Not like I have anything better to do. I’ll go play nurse and spoon-feed a fifteen-year-old some soup.”

Happy snorts and sits down in Tony’s recently vacated armchair. “Good luck,” he remarks, flipping on the TV.

Peter’s room is just down the hall. As Tony opens the door, he sees the scene is pretty much how Happy described it. Peter is laying flat on his back on the bed in sweatpants and a science pun t-shirt, one arm resting loosely over his abdomen, his lips pressed together in a thin line. The TV is tuned to some German news station, but he doesn’t seem to be watching.

“Alright, what’s the deal with the hunger strike?” Tony asks as he enters.

Peter startles at his voice and starts to push himself up from the bed on his elbows. A look of pain flashes across his features and he stops, sinking slowly back down onto the mattress. “Oh, hey Mr. Stark,” he says, a little too casually. “Nothing, I’m fine. Just not too hungry.”

“Yeah, that sounds unlikely,” Tony scoffs. He pulls a fancy-looking menu out of the nightstand drawer and thumbs through it idly. “Why don’t you sit up and we’ll order room service? What do kids eat these days? Chicken nuggets? Mac n’ cheese? Caviar?”

“I’m really okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter insists. “Just kinda tired.”

Tony’s already thin patience runs dry. He tosses the menu back on the nightstand and crosses his arms over his chest. “Sit up, kid,” he commands.

Peter’s eyes dart nervously. “Um, why?”

“Honestly? Mostly because it’s weird that you _won’t_ ,” Tony retorts.

“I just, um, am really comfortable here.”

“Uh huh, sure.” From the interior pocket of his jacket, Tony pulls out a miniature Starkpad and starts tapping away.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks nervously.

“Remotely logging into your suit so I can pull up the injury reports,” Tony replies. Internally he’s kicking himself for not doing that sooner.

“Injury? But I’m completely okay Mr. Stark, I jus-”

“Oh would you look at that,” Tony cuts him off. He presses a button and the display is projected off the tablet out into the room for Peter to see. “Three cracked ribs and a mildly bruised spleen. Yep, that would explain not wanting to move very much.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and rests his forearm over them, looking absolutely miserable.

“Didn’t think any of that was worth mentioning, huh?” Tony asks sarcastically.

“I heal really fast,” Peter mumbles. “It’ll probably be fine by the morning…”

“Oh I’m counting on it,” Tony agrees. “Because we’ve got about twenty hours before I’m due to return you to that unusually attractive aunt of yours and this"—he makes an encompassing gesture at Peter’s horizontal form—"is not gonna fly. Now, you’re gonna sit up enough so that Happy can get you fed and iced and doped up with painkillers. And then we’re gonna see just how fast this super healing of yours is.”

“I’m really okay though, Mr. Stark,” Peter says in a small voice. With a grunt and a strained expression, he pushes himself up on his elbows. “It hardly even hurts anymore.”

Tony scoffs. He gives Peter a pat on the shoulder before turning to leave. “You’re a terrible liar, kid. Don’t bother trying it with me again.”

* * *

  **2.**

Following the Vulture incident, Tony takes much more interest in Peter. Up until then, their “internship” has been nothing more than a convenient lie to explain why he occasionally contacted the kid, but now Tony decides it’s not that bad of an idea.

He starts inviting Peter to the Avengers compound two or three days a month to work in the lab with him, participate in training exercises, and every once in a while, tag along on one of their more relatively-safe missions. Turns out the kid is bright, hardworking, and extremely eager to please, and though he wouldn’t admit it if asked, it’s not long before Tony finds himself looking forward to Peter’s visits nearly as much as the kid does.

But today something is… _off_. Peter has been staying at the compound for the weekend as he and Tony work on upgrading his suit. He’d been a little quiet since dinner, but Tony hadn’t pushed it when he said he was fine, just tired. He’d been in bed—presumably sleeping, although now Tony isn’t too sure—since 9:30.

So it was pure coincidence that Tony, finally heading up to bed himself four hours later, happened to walk past the bathroom door at the same time as telltale gagging and splashing noises issue from within. God knows Peter wouldn’t have told him.

“‘M’fine,” Peter gags.

“Oh yeah, this is my definition of ‘fine’ too,” Tony agrees sarcastically. He’s leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the teenager with a mixture of concern and amusement. “Sprawled out on the bathroom floor, head in the toilet, actively vomiting… how much more fine can you get?”

“Exactly.” Peter gags again, but it’s just bile at this point. When it’s over, he lets his forehead rest on the toilet rim and groans.

Pushing himself away from the doorframe with a small sigh, Tony moves to the sink and fills a glass with water. He holds it out to the teenager. “Drink,” he commands.

Peter makes no effort to lift his head. “Tried. Won’t stay down,” he rasps.

Tony’s brow furrows in concern. “Just how many times have you thrown up?”

“Dunno…” Peter moans softly. “Lost count somewhere after seven.” He lifts his head just long enough to dry heave at the bowl again. When he’s done, he wraps his arms around his spasming stomach and shivers.

“Jesus, kid.” Tony is worried now. He sits down next to Peter on the tile. “Hey, look at me,” he commands, tilting the teenager’s chin up at him.

Peter stares up at him with a blank expression. There are traces of vomit on his face. His eyes are sunken in, there are cracks in his lips, and his skin has a slightly grayish tone. Tony has seen corpses look more lively than this. “We should get you over to Medbay,” Tony decides. “At the very least you could use an IV.”

“No Medbay…” Peter groans. “I’m fine. Probably something I ate. Just need to”—he retches again—"get it out.”

“Kid, there’s nothing left in you to get out,” Tony points out. “At this point, you’ve thrown up things you ate in kindergarten.”

Even in his disheveled state, Peter grins weakly. “Maybe I’ll finally get that tooth I swallowed back. Tooth Fairy never did give me my dollar...”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I will give you _one_ _hundred_ dollars if you just stand up and walk to Medbay with me.”

“Alright. Fine,” Peter gives in. With Tony’s help, he stands shakily. Tony grabs a trash can and Peter hugs it to his chest. “But ‘m not sick.”

Peter stumbles forward and would have fallen if Tony wasn’t gripping his bicep tightly. “No, of course not,” Tony mocks. “Definitely not sick.”

“Nope,” Peter murmurs as they shuffle out of the bathroom.

* * *

**3.**

“Oh, uh, hey Mr. Stark,” Peter finally answers on Tony’s third attempt calling his suit. He sounds agitated, his breaths coming out a little too quick.

“Oh would you look who finally picked up? Hey, Spider-Man, care to explain why you declined my last two calls?” Tony demands.

Tony can hear something rustling on Peter’s end. “I’m just uh, kinda busy…”

“...Or why I just got an alert that your vitals are in the toilet?” Tony continues. He adjusts the thrusters on his suit, picking up speed as he soars over Grand Central Parkway.

“You did?” Peter asks nervously. “That’s weird—must be some kind of system error because I’m fine.”

“Oh you are, are you?”

“Yeah, totally. I’m out on patrol like normal, just swinging past the library now, and uh-”

“Kid,” Tony cuts him off. “You’re aware I get automatic damage reports for this suit, right?”

There’s a beat. “Oh. I, um… I didn’t know you checked those.”

“Yeah, well, when I figured out my new intern can’t be bothered to tell anyone when _he’s_ _been stabbed_ , I started getting them sent to my phone,” Tony bites back.

More rustling. A hiss of pain. The sound of paper tearing. “I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

“Tell you what. I’m gonna give you one more chance to answer me honestly or else I’m conferencing Aunt May in on this call.”

“No no no!” Peter yelps. “Don’t tell Aunt May! Please!”

“Then _talk_ ,” Tony orders.

“Alright, alright! I might have gotten… lightly stabbed.”

Tony turns down over a side street, following the path illuminated by FRIDAY. “Uh huh. And what exactly made it _light_?”

“Uh, well, it’s not a very big knife…”

Tony groans. “Look kid, I’m almost there. _Don’t_ take the knife out.”

Peter coughs. “Uh…”

From inside his helmet, Tony rolls his eyes. “You already took it out, didn’t you?”

“Well how else was I supposed to do the stitches?” the teenager whines.

“I’m sorry, _what did you just say to me?!_ ”

That’s when Tony spots the familiar red and blue figure slumped against a dumpster in an alley below him. On the ground nearby, he spies the suit’s discarded mask along with several sterile dressing wrappers, an open travel-size sewing kit, and a receipt from CVS Pharmacy. Peter, grimacing, has one hand pressing gauze pads to a bleeding wound on his side while the other shakily holds a threaded needle.

Tony touches down in the alley, his boots clinking against the concrete. “Show’s over, kid,” he announces. “Put down the needle. The adult is taking over now.”

Peter’s face is pale and sweat is sticking his hair to his forehead. Nevertheless, he mumbles, “I’m good, Mr. Stark. I’ve got it… handled…”

He promptly passes out.

“Lightly stabbed, my ass…” Tony grumbles before jogging over.

* * *

  **4.**

Tony’s on a video chat with Happy. The driver is supposed to be picking Peter up from his apartment to bring him in for a low-level mission later that evening. It’s the perfect training opportunity—a simple raid on a poorly guarded weapons bunker in Jersey. But they’ve hit a snag.

“I tried to tell him, boss,” Happy says into the phone. “He won’t listen to me—says he’s fine.”

“Flip the screen around,” Tony commands. He’s grateful he finally took the time to teach Happy the basics of smartphone use as Peter comes into view.

“Kid, you’re not going on this mission and that’s final,” Tony declares.

“No, no please, Mr. Stark! I can totally go,” Peter protests while scratching at the side of his neck.

“You’re covered in pink spots and itching,” Tony points out. “You’re staying.”

“I told you, they’re mosquito bites,” Peter defends.

“It’s January!” Happy cuts in.

“Mosquitos really like me. I wouldn’t even be surprised,” Peter says seriously. The kid looks utterly exhausted. But even though he sways on his feet as he stands, his expression is so intent that it’s almost comical. He scratches at his leg.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Next you’re gonna tell me the mosquitos gave you that fever too.”

“What fever? I don’t have a fever,” Peter denies.

“Uh huh. So you’re wearing two hoodies, a sweater, _and_ your winter coat when it’s forty degrees out because...?”

“Couldn’t pick a favorite.”

Tony rubs a hand over his face in exasperation. “Peter, just stop. This is embarrassing. Go lay down before you pass out.”

The bone-tiredness finally seems to win out. “Alright,” Peter relents. “But I’ll be fine after a little nap, so if you need any back up later…”

“Happy, follow him inside and make sure May knows he’s got chicken pox. Something tells me he’s been hiding it or she would have given us a heads up already.”

“Will do,” Happy replies. “Let’s go kid,” he says to the stubborn teen.

“You’re also authorized to strap him to the bed if necessary,” Tony adds. “Tell Aunt Hottie hi for me. See you when you’re better, Pete.”

“But I’m not even sick, Mr. Sta-”

“Bye kid,” Tony ends the call abruptly.

* * *

**5.**

* * *

**5.5.**

_“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is wobbly and he’s stumbling forward. His face is contorted in fear. A gust of wind blows ash across his path. “I don't feel so good.”_

_The irony of the situation is that now that the kid has finally admitted it, Tony is the one denying it._

_“You're alright,” he insists as Peter crashes into his arms. Moments later, there’s only dust._

* * *

  **+1**

In the months following the defeat of Thanos and the snap’s reversal, Tony subtly starts looking for opportunities to spend more time with his recently restored intern. So when Happy has to go to Chicago that weekend for his sister’s wedding, Tony is more than willing to pick up Peter himself. Plus, he needs an excuse to get out of a board meeting anyway.

He pulls up to Midtown in one of his less flashy Audis and watches as the hoard of high schoolers starts pouring out. Usually, Peter is one of the first students out the door after the final bell, but today Tony has to wait several minutes before he spots the kid. He’s walking slower than usual, his shoulders hunched and eyes looking down.

As Peter approaches, Tony leans over and pops the door open for him. “Hey kid,” he greets. “Ready to blow this popsicle stand?”

Peter glances up, looking mildly surprised to see him. “Oh. Hey, Mr. Stark.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “Uh, I kinda forgot you were picking me up today,” he says a little sheepishly.

Tony shrugs. “That’s alright, we can stop at your place if you need to pack a bag.” He pats his hand on the seat next to him. “Hop in.”

Peter hesitates for a second before loading his backpack into the car and getting in. As soon as he’s seated, he leans back against the headrest and lets his eyelids squeeze shut with a sigh.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Long day?”

Peter nods. He’s unusually quiet for the few minutes it takes for Tony to pull out of the pick-up lane and turn onto the main road.

“You alright, kid?” Tony asks casually.

Peter seems to be debating saying something. His voice is a little hoarse when he finally answers, “Actually… um, do you think maybe we can reschedule?”

Tony smirks and takes a sip from his Stark Industries travel mug. “Did that Ted buddy of yours get a new Lego set?”

“It’s Ned. And nah...” Peter shrugs. “I’m just not feeling so great today.”

Tony chokes on the coffee in surprise. The dark liquid runs down his chin as he coughs and sputters. “What do you mean you’re not feeling great?” he demands. “You need a doctor?”

“No, no.” He coughs a few times into his elbow. “It’s just a cold.”

Tony pulls into a gas station and parks the car. He unbuckles his seatbelt so he can turn around and get a better look at Peter. The kid is paler than usual and there are dark circles under his eyes. Tony presses a hand to Peter’s forehead, frowning at the warmth. “FRIDAY, run vitals,” he commands.

Peter attempts to squirm away from the touch, looking confused. “Why are you freaking out?” he wonders.

In the background, the AI rattles off a string of numbers for Peter’s blood pressure, respiration, pulse, and temperature. Over it, Tony retorts, “Because _not once_ in the nearly two years I’ve known you have you ever admitted to not feeling good. So for you to just come out and say something unprompted means you must be actively dying.”

“ _Or_ ,” Peter says slowly, “It means _I_ _have a cold_. Like I just said.”

Tony scoffs, “Sure, kid. FRIDAY, just for shits and giggles, plot out a route to the nearest hospital. Keep it on stand-by.”

“Affirmative, boss,” she replies.

Peter rolls his eyes. “What will it take for you to believe me?”

“A completely different set of past experiences with you in which you didn’t insist on lying to my face repeatedly,” Tony deadpans.

Peter hacks out a few more coughs. “Okay, point taken,” he says. “But what if I promise to level with you this time?”

“That would be a good place to start,” Tony agrees.

“Alright.” Peter sighs and closes his eyes before starting in. “I have a headache, my throat hurts, and I'm dead-tired. My nose has been dripping all day but I’m out of tissues so I’ve been wiping it on the scratchy one-ply toilet paper from the school bathroom. And I started getting a cough like an hour ago.” He opens them again and makes eye contact with Tony. “It’s just a dumb cold, Mr. Stark, I promise," he says seriously.

For once, Tony sees something new in the teenager’s eyes: honesty. “So… you’re really just sick?” he asks. “You’re not hiding anything else? There’s no infected, festering wound somewhere?”

Peter shakes his head. “I am really just sick.”

Tony lets out a deep sigh and leans back against the headrest. “Goddammit, kid,” he groans.

Peter raises his eyebrows at him and smirks. “Am I seriously in trouble for telling you the truth?”

“Yes, you are,” Tony says in exasperation, "because no one expected you to do that.”

Peter breaks into laughter and continues until it turns into coughs. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” he chokes out.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony brushes him off. “Now let’s go pick up some chicken noodle soup and get you home to your aunt. I’m ordering Netflix and bedrest. And no more scaring your old man, understood?”

“Understood,” Peter confirms.

**Author's Note:**

> (I'm sorry about 5.5. I didn't want to do it either but the story seemed incomplete without it)


End file.
